Am I The Good Boy? Really??

I Am Not Her

I am not Her. Her with Her hips and Her chest and Her hair, with Her voice and Her face and all that's "down there". Comfortable, happy, with all who She is, who is proud to buy bras, with pads as She grows, Not checking Her calendar like She's on death row, Not watching the waiter, will they call Her "Sir"? Will Her friends use His name or insist He is Her? No, I am not Her, happy and free, I am trapped, I am scared, why can't I break free? Peel off my skin and expose what's inside, the flatness, the chest hair, a bulge in my jeans. But I CAN'T, so I hide in this ill fitting suit, that tightens and squeezes as the waiter says "Miss". I am Him with His shoulders, His chest and His hair, with His voice and His face and all that's "down there". So I hope and I hide in this ill fitting suit, Him who is trapped, pulled down by twin weights, Him with His boxers and a shaver with time, Counting the minutes 'till I can say He, I am Him, I am Them, happy and free. But still my suit blocks the light to my skin underneath, hiding from sight the Boy who is me. I am Him, I am Them.

And I.

Am.

Not.

Her.

Just a small poem about my experience with gender dysphoria I wrote in like 20 mins. I am boyfluidflux, and use he/they/it and most other neopronouns. Feel free to leave constructive criticism, and to those who feel this, I'm sorry society has trapped you like it traps me. Have a good day, peeps, take care!!! 🏳️‍⚧️🏳️‍🌈

You filled my field with flowers,

You filled my heart with gold,

You filled my head with memories,

So I'll love you 'till we're old.

I'll water your own flowers,

I'll pour my heart into yours,

I'll give you all my memories,

And love you 'till we're gone.

my dad was outside feeding the slugs cucumber slices earlier

I have never once wished for Tolkien to still be alive as much as I do in this moment

(Some more clips)

Scars

My body is littered with Scars that I made. Pinks and bright whites, ridges and dips, a minefield of lines hide what's underneath. A broken soul and an empty heart, the remnants of a shattered boy, smashed by the ones who were meant to protect. Surviving the only way I know how, with Scars on my skin and my shattered soul.

This is about my struggle with sh, how my scars are something I'm scared of people seeing, but are still somehow things I look at and feel a strange love for. How I feel so numb and tired all the time, and how when I do feel it is dulled a distant, and I don't know what it is. How I was broken by people who's love was meant to be unconditional, yet they caused me pain in form of screamed words, sarcastic sneered comments, ridicule and physical hurt. How the only way they left me to cope was through taking control of who hurt me by hating and hurting myself. I'm going to have to learn how to heal these shards and learn to feel again when I get out, but for now I must only survive. Albeit slightly healthier than I did or sometimes still do, as I have had to teach myself how to help and work with my brain. To people out there who feel the same, I hear you. You will not always live in silent fear. I promise. ✌️♥️🌱

Hey students, here’s a pro tip: do not write an email to your prof while you’re seriously sick.

Signed, a person who somehow came up with “dear hello, I am sick and not sure if I’ll be alive to come tomorrow and I’m sorry, best slutantions, [name]”.

god forbid 5000 year old girls do anything